Page 19 of How Not to Marry a Duke

Seven. Eight. He did not ask what she meant.

* * *

The morning room was full of fresh air and warm sunshine. Penelope had arranged a comfortable chair by the window with cushions and a footstool for the injured leg. She hovered as Frederick settled Florinda into place.

"There. Is that comfortable? Not too drafty?"

"I am quite well, Lady Penelope. Truly." Florinda's voice was gentle. "You have been unbearably kind."

"Nonsense. Anyone would do the same." Penelope straightened. "Now, I must go speak with Cook about luncheon—she has opinions about the menu that require negotiation. Frederick, do keep Lady Florinda company until I return."

She departed before either of them could object.

Frederick stood in the middle of the morning room, arms empty, feeling vaguely bereft. Penelope trusted him. Of course she did. Why would she not? He was her fiancé, and Florinda was an invalid, and there was nothing remotely improper about keeping a houseguest company.

Except that his arms still remembered the feel of her. Except that he could still feel the brush of her hair against his jaw. Except that he had counted fourteen stairs and twelve breaths and was already anticipating the return journey.

The door opened, admitting Lord Ashworth.

"Ah!" Penelope's father surveyed the scene with barely concealed interest. "How touching. His Grace playing nursemaid."

"Lord Ashworth." Frederick kept his voice level. "I was not aware you were seeking company."

"I was seeking my daughter, but I see she has abandoned her post." Lord Ashworth settled into a chair. "Left you two alone, has she? How trusting. I shall be sure to mention it in my letters. The county will be so interested to hear how dedicated you are to Lady Florinda's recovery."

"How fortunate that you have found a subject for your correspondence," Florinda said, her voice sweet as arsenic. "I was beginning to worry your talents might be going to waste."

Lord Ashworth's smile curdled. Frederick felt an inappropriate surge of admiration.

"Your daughter suggested this arrangement," Frederick said. "She felt Lady Florinda required a change of scenery. I merely obliged."

"Yes. Penelope's idea." Lord Ashworth's eyes glittered. "My daughter has always been prone to... charitable impulses. I do hope she is not inconveniencing you, Your Grace."

"Not at all. Lady Penelope's kindness does her credit."

"Kindness." Lord Ashworth repeated the word as though testing it for weaknesses. "Yes. She has always had a great deal of that. Sometimes to her detriment."

"I find kindness rarely detrimental," Florinda said. "Though I suppose one's perspective depends on whether one is giving or receiving it. Some people find generosity threatening."

The silence that followed was spectacular.

Lord Ashworth rose, his face mottled. "I believe I hear my daughter calling. If you will excuse me."

No one was calling. He left anyway.

"You," Frederick said, "are terrifying."

"I have been trapped in a blue room for two weeks with nothing but Gothic novels and my own thoughts." Florinda's smile was sharp. "Lord Ashworth should count himself fortunate I did not quote Mrs. Radcliffe at him."

* * *

The arrangement continued.

Every morning, Penelope would suggest that Lady Florinda might benefit from fresh air. Every morning, Frederick would carry her down the fourteen stairs while Penelope rushed ahead to prepare cushions and tea. Every morning, Penelope would find a reason to absent herself—a matter requiring her attention in the kitchen, a letter that needed writing, a conversation with the housekeeper that could not wait.

She was, Frederick reflected, an exceptionally busy hostess. He was grateful for her kindness to Florinda, grateful that she did not hover or fuss, grateful that she trusted him enough to leave them in peace.

He tried not to think about why that gratitude felt so much like guilt.